


Maldición de las Hadas

by SatuD2



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Faerie, Curses, Faeries - Freeform, Gen, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-20 12:18:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14260806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SatuD2/pseuds/SatuD2
Summary: They were the last few cloud forests in Mexico. Low mountains covered in dense rainforest with copious shallow streams and waterfalls. Rumoured to be magical places, where the veil between worlds thinned to the point of transparency. The rare visitors to them sometimes spoke of huge hulking shadows, as ephemeral as the clouds they walked through, spied from the corner of their eye. The sensible and the superstitious steered well clear.Miguel Rivera was neither.





	1. Cloud Forest

**Author's Note:**

>  
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you to the wonderful DeejayMIL for being both my beta and for making the beautiful cover you see above, and the banners that will be on top of each chapter. Thank you, Dee, you're wonderful and a constant inspiration to me!

 

The forests were green. A vivid, living, almost hostile green that could confuse the eye, adding tricky perspectives of depth. They were areas where the air hung so heavy with moisture that wisps of cloud clung to every uneven surface, the thin cloud obscuring detail and making navigation next to impossible.

They were the last few cloud forests in Mexico. Low mountains covered in dense rainforest with copious shallow streams and waterfalls. Rumoured to be magical places, where the veil between worlds thinned to the point of transparency. The rare visitors to them sometimes spoke of huge hulking shadows, as ephemeral as the clouds they walked through, spied from the corner of their eye. The sensible and the superstitious steered well clear.

Miguel Rivera was neither.

At twelve, he was too old to believe in stories of magic, but still young enough to believe the warnings of being lost didn’t apply to him. And Santa Cecilia, the tiny community he called home, was nestled right at the edge of one of these forests. Brick and stone haciendas sprinkled over the rising slope, ending in the cemetery with iron gates topped with wicked spikes to protect the dead who lay in graves with mossy headstones and carefully kept grass. One mausoleum, which had been communal until the death of their most famous resident and Miguel’s personal hero, the actor and musician Ernesto de la Cruz. Then it had been converted to a lone tomb, shining marble and chiseled stone. The other inhabitants had shifted to their own solo graves.

The cemetery was the quickest way to get to the forest, and it was the way Miguel used the most often. He told his parents he was volunteering: cleaning gravestones and removing old offerings, mowing the grass on Sundays. And, sometimes, he would. But the graves didn’t need maintenance every day after school, as he pretended: it was a couple of hours on a Saturday, max. There was a groundskeeper, after all, who did most of the work. She appreciated Miguel’s help in removing old flowers and clearing the moss away from the headstones, sure, but didn’t expect it all the time.

Most days, when he went to the cemetery, he would go straight through, past de la Cruz’s tomb and into the oppressive shade of the forest. There was a bit of overlap: a few unkempt, forgotten graves scattered between growing, mossy trees. Miguel tried to straighten them up a little when he saw them, but it was an impossible task. The forest was claiming them, was all.

As it did all things, in the end.

The last grave was the cleanest. He’d wiped the moss away and cleared off the thick leaf litter. It wasn’t out of any particular respect. The gravestone was too faded to even read after all these years, worn almost flat from time and moisture. No, Miguel kept it clean because it was the grave he visited the most. Even more than his idol’s mausoleum. Even more than his own family gravesite.

He visited this grave the most, because this was where he left his guitar.

The Riveras hated music, everyone knew that. It went back generations, this loathing of song and melody. The story had been parroted at him whenever he’d been caught singing or humming or even drumming a simple rhythm with his heels. The story of the runaway musician and the young family he had left behind. Sometimes when his father was reciting it Miguel would mouth along, furrowing his brow and gesticulating in an unflattering imitation.

Because it was ridiculous. A ban on music? How could they ban music, when it was the one thing that actually made him happy? When it was the foundation that held his soul together? It didn’t make any sense.

He pulled the waterproof tarp back, a rush of excitement building when he saw the shabby, battered case. He ran his fingers over the peeling leather and the rusted clasps. There was adoration in his touch. Longing. An apology for being away so long.

He gripped the worn handle. It was perfectly moulded to his hand, each finger finding a matching divot. As he straightened, he let out a low whistle, cupping his other hand around his mouth so it carried further. There was a rattling crash of branches and rustling of thick leaf litter before a grey dog with wiry fur protruding from the top of his head came bounding out of the forest. Miguel caught the dog’s weight with his chest, losing his balance and sprawling on the grave, his guitar bouncing on the fallen leaves.

“Dante, no, Dante, stop!” he said, laughing and trying in vain to fend off exuberant and incredibly slobbery licks. “Get off!”

Dante licked his face, pausing for only a moment to sniff at his mouth where the scent of his lunch probably still lingered, before bounding off and around him in excited circles, panting, long tongue dripping with saliva.

“That’s gross,” Miguel said. He used the sleeve of his hoodie to wipe his cheeks clean and grinned. “Bad dog.”

Dante barked. A joyful bark that echoed off the trees. Miguel flinched and wrapped his hands around Dante’s muzzle.

“Shh, no barking, remember? You’re not allowed in the cemetery.”

Dante flicked his still lolling tongue, slapped it on the back of Miguel’s hand. With a disgusted little laugh, Miguel let go and wiped his hands on his jeans.

“Let’s go, Dante.” He grabbed the guitar and headed deeper into the forest. Dante followed at his heels, sniffing at the ground.

The forest closed behind them. Soon there was no sign of civilisation anywhere. Just green, birdsong, trickling water. It was too late in the day for cloud to gather, but the air was still thick with moisture. Miguel wiped sweat from his forehead and Dante panted louder as they walked. It was a familiar path by now; a ten minute hike at best. He found himself wishing, not for the first time, that his guitar case had a strap so he didn’t have to hoist it from hand to hand, rubbing his palms on his jeans to dry them off each time he did.

The sound of water grew louder. Impossibly loud. The clearing was close, it had to be. The walk seemed to get a little bit longer each time. He was sure it was the heat and the green of this place playing tricks with his mind. Eventually he saw the brown X he’d carved from a tree trunk, already faded to green at the edges as moss tried to re-establish its dominance.

He scratched away the moss. Nodded at the reformed X. Then, he brushed past the tree and into the clearing.

It wasn’t much of a clearing. There was still a solid canopy of criss-crossed branches and heavy hanging leaves above. No grass, just more of that thick carpet of leaf-litter. But there was a little bit more space here than closer to Santa Cecilia and the roots of a thick, gnarled, ancient-looking tree made a good place to rest. It was stunted, this tree, curved and curling back on itself, but no less beautiful for it. Its roots crossed the small stream that flowed through here, disrupting the water into white frothy rapids.

Dante launched himself into the water, snapping at the froth and lapping at the waves with noisy swallows. Miguel nestled into the roots of the tree. Undid the clasps on the case and pulled the guitar out.

The wood was chipped at the edges and tarnished from years of neglect. Despite this, the strings were clean and shiny and, when he brushed his fingers against them, a muted metallic chord hummed from the instrument. He plucked the strings and squinted as he fiddled with the pegs. Strummed a few gentle chords, using the pads of his fingers so the music he played was soft. Dante lay down in the water, head resting on a prominent root, his eyes fixed on Miguel. His tongue lolled, shockingly pink, from the side of his mouth.

Miguel played a few chords. Practiced some intricate flourishes. He even sang a few songs. Started out with a crooning serenade, through to a mid-tempo joking riddle, then finished on a rapid-fire series of chords, his voice raised in a ringing shout. The echo bounced off the trees and reverberated in his ears. Added a strange almost harmony-like effect to his words. Dante burst from the water on this last song, howling up at the canopy. Miguel laughed and shielded the guitar as Dante shook, a fine mist of water flinging from his smooth, furless skin. As he played the light in the clearing grew dimmer, the shade thickening beneath the canopy. Outside of the forest, the sun would be sinking low in the sky and, at home, his parents would be expecting him back.

“Okay, Dante, time to go home.” Miguel packed up his guitar, laying it gently in the cloth-lined case and running his fingers over the strings, closing his eyes as they hummed back at him. “Until tomorrow,” he murmured. Closed the lid and snapped the clasps shut.

As he straightened he spied a small hollow in the trunk of his tree. A frown creased his forehead and he brushed his fingertips over it. That hadn’t been there yesterday. He was almost sure. Nestled in the bottom of this hollow was a purple skinned fruit. Bulbous and rounded. As soon as his eyes landed on it his nose was suddenly filled with the earthy sweet scent of figs. His favourite.

_Don’t eat the fruit of the forest._

His papa’s voice echoed in his head. It had been an amendment, that advice. The first thing Enrique Rivera had said had actually been: “Don’t go into the forest.” Then, seeing his son’s face, he’d amended that to: “If you are going to, at least don’t eat the fruit.”

It was sensible advice. While cloud forests were filled with luscious, edible fruits, there was danger there too: poison and spiders and larvae buried deep. The advice was an echo of his abuelita’s, as well, though she had drawn from a different perspective.

“The forest is a magical place,” she’d told him, gnarled finger tapping his nose to get his attention. “The fruit of the forest is poisoned with that magic. Don’t you eat any fruit you find, Miguelito.”

He considered this while looking at the fig that rested innocently on the floor of the hollow. Where was the harm in one? It wasn’t like a fig would poison him. They ate figs all the time. And he’d never seen anything that mimicked a fig so perfectly. The advice had been superstitious and sensible.

And, of course, Miguel Rivera was neither.

He lifted it up, brought it to his nose, and sniffed it cautiously. Dante let out a low growl behind him, but his attention was laser-focused on the soft, smooth fruit in his palm. Without realising what he was doing, he opened his mouth and took a bite. The skin broke. Soft seeds popped between his lips. It was impossibly sweet. Impossibly delicious. In three bites, the fruit was gone and he was licking the last few drips of juice from his fingertips.

Dante was still growling. A low, helpless growl that rumbled at the back of his throat, almost lost beneath the churning rush of the stream.

“It’s okay, boy, look.” Miguel lowered his hand, offering the scent and perhaps a hint of the taste of fruit on his fingers. But Dante lifted his lip and revealed gleaming teeth, backing away slightly. His tail was curled tight between his legs and his ears lay flat against his skull. “Woah, okay, okay.” Miguel walked to the stream and washed his hand clean. “See, all gone. C’mon, Dante, let’s go.”

Dante sniffed his hand cautiously, eyes narrowed and nose barely touching his skin, then relaxed and flopped his tongue out again. Good, all back to normal. Miguel urged him out of the clearing, laughing as they kicked up leaf litter and slapped at branches. They reached the forgotten grave, and he wrapped the guitar case in the tarp and laid it at the gravestone. Made sure it was secure and that the blue was hidden from the cemetery proper.

“You go around the village. I’ll meet you at home.”

A few enthusiastic laps at Miguel’s hands, a nudge against his fingers with a cold wet nose, adoring brown eyes gleaming in the low light. Then, Dante turned on his hairless tail and disappeared into the forest. Miguel watched after him for a second, then brushed his hand against the gravestone, mumbled a low thanks, and headed home. Past de la Cruz’s tomb and past the carefully maintained graves, towards the cobblestone street with uneven stones set in eroded cement.

The sun was setting as he walked through Santa Cecilia, illuminating everything with a soft orange glow. Small clay and paper alebrijes sat on window sills and hung from door frames, their vibrant rainbow colours muted in the evening light. The paper ones fluttered as he passed, shifting in a warm breeze that did nothing to ease the sweat from his skin.

When he finally got home, Luisa already had dinner on the table. His favourite: tamales with black bean salsa, but he only managed a single bite before he had to stop. His stomach didn’t feel quite right, like the food was an anvil sitting heavily at the bottom of his gut. Dante lay curled beneath the table, his breath coming in soft, high-pitched whines.

“Ay, Miguel, you don’t look well,” Luisa said. She lay her hand on his forehead, then bent and pressed her lips to his skin. “You don’t have a fever.”

“I’m just not hungry, Mama,” he said, offering a weak smile. That was the truth. Maybe. Probably.

“Go rest up,” Enrique said, his tone concerned. “I’ll bring you something simple later.”

“Okay, Papa.” Miguel cast a longing look at the plate. The nibbled bite of firm dough revealing the barest hint of shredded beef. He wanted to eat it but the idea of trying any more made his stomach twist. He kissed his mother’s cheek and squeezed Enrique’s shoulder. Went to his room with Dante at his heels and crawled into bed. Dante curled up on the floor beside the bed, his nose on his paws and his eyes watchful. The shadows outlined in the soft silver moonlight seemed to shift and twist, forming unfamiliar sinister shapes, and Miguel rolled pointedly on his side, facing away from the wall. Breathed in the lingering smell of figs, closed his eyes, and tried to go to sleep.


	2. Faerie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to DeejayMIL for not only betaing for me, but also for making the wonderful chapter banners. THANK YOU! <3

 

Miguel didn’t sleep well. He tossed and turned, half-rousing from vivid, nonsensical dreams to the sound of wind shifting and rattling the window-frame. He became vaguely aware of a low, constant growl, but he couldn’t wake up enough to figure out the significance of this. With the growling, almost as an accompaniment, a pain started in his stomach. Dull and twisting and radiating out from his belly button. When he finally did manage to break his slumber enough to really register the pain, he realised the growling was coming from the corner of the room.

Dante was crouched there, hunched backwards with his front paws extended and his head low to the ground. Miguel tried to get up and couldn’t manage; the pain in his stomach stabbed with every movement he tried to make.

“Dante,” he groaned, his voice low and catching with pain. “Stop, boy, c’mon.”

He flapped his hand in a shushing gesture, then patted the sheet on top of him, trying to get the dog’s attention. It didn’t work. Dante just kept growling at the corner, the skin of his shoulders raised and wrinkled.

And then a voice, quiet but intense with fear, spoke up.

“Ay, chamaco, call off your dog!”

Shock drove the air from Miguel’s lungs. His eyes widened in the dark, searching the shadows to try and spy where the voice had come from. The pain in his stomach faded in the face of this surprise, and so this time when he tried to push himself upright he managed to get his elbow levered beneath him easily.

“Dante!” Now his voice was clear and loud, and Dante swung his head around. The whites of his eyes gleamed in the moonlight and a cold shiver ran up Miguel’s spine. He’d never seen the Xolo look so vicious before. “Come here.” He hit his palm on the sheet with a heavy thud. Dante cast another look at the corner, snarled in warning, then slunk back to the bed, hopped up onto the mattress and curled up beside Miguel, his eyes still firmly fixed on the shadows. Miguel put a hand on Dante’s rigid flank and looked cautiously towards where the voice seemed to have come from.

“Thanks, kid.” The voice was closer this time, seeming to come from the foot of the bed. Dante growled again, but Miguel patted him and murmured a distracted, soothing word.

“Who’s there? How did you get in here?”

There was a moment of silence. Not a very long one, but long enough for the Miguel to wonder if he was losing his mind and for the pain to reassert itself, a shadow of its former self. He groaned and moved his hand from Dante’s side to press at the pit of his gut, the dog rolling towards him and pushing a wet nose against his bare knee.

Then, a hand appeared over the top of his footboard. It was tiny, barely a shadow against the dark wood. He barely had time to realise what it was before a mop of dark hair rose above the back and a small man was hefting himself up and over, spilling onto the sheet and into the moonlight with an exhausted laugh. Dante jolted upright and scrambled away from the little man, curling between Miguel and the wall with a low whine. The man lifted one arm and shook a fist towards the dog.

“Ha, not so brave now, are you, perro?” he said, voice hitching and breathless.

Miguel watched as the tiny man rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself up, stumbling as he got to his feet, waving thin arms and catching hold of the footboard with long-fingered hands. There were coloured smudges on his face, but they were indistinct. He was dressed in a roughly constructed suit of green leaves that were already turning brown at the edges and sewn together with faded purple thread.

“Who…are you?” Miguel asked cautiously. Still half convinced he was talking to a figment of his imagination. The hand that had been pushing on his stomach moved to his forehead, trying to feel for a fever. This was a dream. It had to be a dream.

“Oh, I’m Héctor.” The small man, Héctor, regained his balance and strode confidently up the bed. Bouncing slightly on the springy surface with each step. A winning smile spread over his face, revealing a gold tooth that winked in the moonlight and a dimple in his left cheek. As he moved closer, the smudges on his face became more defined and revealed themselves to be intricate swirls and spots of colour that shifted between green and blue over sharp cheekbones and a long, hooked nose.

“Are you a dream?” Miguel reached out. Gently prodded at Héctor’s cheek and earned himself a slap on the finger for his trouble, the sting of the impact enough to convince Miguel that he was awake, at least.

“No, no, no, chamaco, I’m a faerie.”

The word entered Miguel’s ears. Rattled around in his brain. Exited his mouth in a disbelieving whisper. “Faerie?” Héctor nodded. Then scowled when Miguel said, “But faeries aren’t real.”

“Hey, I’m real.” Héctor’s eyes widened and he started patting up and down his body with splayed fingers. “Ay, kid, you can see me right?” When Miguel nodded, Héctor wiped his forehead in an apparent show or relief, then put his hands on his hips and narrowed his eyes up at Miguel. “You should know better than to go into the forest. Let alone to eat any of the fruit!”

Hearing his father’s advice in that deep, quiet voice needled Miguel, and he snapped, “What would you know about it?”

“Well you ate my dinner, for a start,” Héctor snapped back. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to eat fae food?” They glowered at each other. Then Héctor’s eyes flicked to the head of the bed and his mouth dropped open. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, chamaco, is that…?”

Miguel twisted. Looked back at the head of the bed. Felt an odd, yawning disbelief overtake the niggling pain in his gut. It looked like he was lying down. Head rested sideways on the pillow. Eyes peacefully closed. But he couldn’t be. He was here. Sitting.

A hoarse, strangled scream echoed from a great distance. His hands caught and twisted in the sheets. Overbalancing as he recoiled and sprawling out of the bed onto the hard floor.

He lay there, breathing in hard, quick, panting breaths. Tasting the faded remnant of the lemon soap Luisa scrubbed the floor with. Staring ahead with wide, unseeing eyes. Dante whined and jumped down beside him, curling warm and trembling at his side. Miguel didn’t move to hold him closer. He might have laid there forever, but suddenly Héctor was crouched in front of his face, slapping at his cheeks with cold hands.

“Hey, wake up.” Miguel stirred, blinked, and met the tiny man’s warm, brown eyes. “Ay, there you are.” Héctor smiled at him and patted his cheek with a soothing touch. “You scared me, chamaco.”

“I’m dead. I’m definitely dead.” Miguel scrambled upright, leaving Héctor and Dante on the ground, and leaned on the side of the bed. Looked at the sleeping figure of himself. “Oh dios mío, I didn’t want to die!”

“Calm down, you’re not dead.” Héctor hopped to his feet, then jumped up and grabbed a tight hold of the sheet. Climbed up onto the bed and wandered with a casual saunter that was too stiff in the back towards Miguel’s body. “See, you’re sleeping.”

“I’m not there.” Miguel reached out and shoved his body’s shoulder. It rocked slightly and lay still again. The blanket shifting as it breathed. That unsettling detachment swelled. “I’m out here. This is nutso.”

“You’re nutso.” Héctor’s voice was a little too flat, a little too casual.

“You don’t even know what that means!” Miguel snapped automatically. That strange distant disconnect was starting to crack, and he felt himself teetering at the edge of some huge emotional upheaval.

“You don’t know that!” Héctor groaned and covered his face. “Dios mío, you’re right I don’t know what that means.”

“My parents are gonna kill me.” Miguel’s heart beat a little harder, thumping in his ears, and a sudden wave of dizziness made him put his face onto the sheet and groan. “How did this happen?”

Héctor hummed softly and patted the back of Miguel’s head. “Shouldn’t’ve eaten my dinner. Can’t eat fae food without getting cursed. At least, that’s what I’ve heard.”

“It was _one_ fig,” Miguel said, his voice muffled by a mouthful of sheet. “I can’t be cursed from _one_ fig!”

“Probably why you’re still here, in spirit at least.” Another comforting pat. “Do you really want to get back in your body so badly? What’s so great about having a body anyway?”

Because with a body he could eat and drink and grow. He could shine shoes and help clean the cemetery and play his guitar. He could hug his parents and help prepare the nursery for the baby Mama was expecting.

The first hot sting of tears came. Miguel twisted his fists in the sheet and screwed up his face to try and prevent it, but it was too late. He was already crying with the choked, whooping sobs of a scared child. Dante nosed beneath his elbow and gently lapped as his cheeks.

“Whoa, chamaco, shh, it’s okay.” There was distress in Héctor’s voice. No more of that light humour and casual charm. “It’s just a curse, we can break it.”

Miguel’s sobs caught. He lifted his face and wiped streaming eyes and nose with his wrist, startling Dante back onto the ground. “Do you mean it? We can break the curse?”

Héctor waved his hands uncertainly, squinting and shrugging his shoulders up. “Eh, maybe? I’m pretty sure. I’d have to go to the Faerie Realm to figure that out…”

“The Faerie Realm?” Miguel stewed on this for a moment. Rolling the concept back and forth in his mind, before reaching out one hand and wrapping it around Héctor’s chest. The leaves beneath his fingers were smooth except for the ridges where the purple threads bound them together. Héctor’s chest was narrow and the surprised squeak he let out pressed ribs as fine as thread against Miguel’s fingertips.

“Eh, what do you think you’re playing at?!”

“How do we get there? To the Faerie Realm?” Miguel asked, pushing himself back on his heels and lifting Héctor to eye level.

“We?” Héctor asked, incredulous. He squirmed one arm free and tapped his fist on Miguel’s finger. “What do you mean by ‘we’? _I_ will go to the Faerie Realm and _I_ will talk to the other faeries and _I_ will figure out how to break the curse and _I_ will come back, okay?”

Miguel blinked. Glanced at the humped form of his own body. His crying had left no mark on the sheet, but it was screwed up and twisted from where his grip had tightened, pulling it away from his own sleeping body. Revealing the brown curve of his shoulder and the white strap of his singlet. The sight made him feel suddenly ill, and he realised for the first time that the pain he’d felt when he woke up had vanished the moment he sprawled on the floor.

He put Héctor down on the headboard and pulled the sheet back over his body. Folded the edge over so it sat just where he liked it, on the point of his shoulder.

“I’m not going to sit around here and wait for you to _maybe_ come back. I’m going to the Faerie Realm,” he said. “And you are going to guide me there.”

Héctor threw his hands up and huffed at the ceiling. “Fine, fine, fine. I’ll show you how to get to the Faerie Realm. But you have to be good, okay, chamaco? No embarrassing me in front of the other fae, okay?”

“Deal.” Miguel stood up from the bed and almost tripped over Dante. At this movement, the Xolo hopped to his feet and scrambled out of the way. He licked Miguel’s hand earnestly, looking pleadingly up. Miguel smiled and knelt, rubbing his hand over Dante’s smooth neck. Laughing a little as the dog’s lolling pink tongue slapped on the back of his hand. “And Dante comes too.”

“Wait, wait, no, no, no, we are _not_ bringing that dog into the Faerie Realm. He almost ate me!”

“We’re all going.” Firmly now, leaving no room for argument. It was the tone Luisa pulled when Miguel didn’t want to do his homework. “All three of us together.” Miguel wiped the last streaks of tears from his cheeks and smiled at the little faerie with green and blue decorations on his small pointed face. “Come on, Héctor, lead the way.”


	3. Guardian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to DeejayMIL for not only betaing for me, but also for making the wonderful chapter banners. THANK YOU! You're amazing!! <3

 

Getting out of the house was easy. Héctor had apparently crawled in through his window, but there was no need to go out that way. Miguel simply walked out the front door, Dante at his heels and Héctor on his shoulder. Shivering a little as he opened the door and a cool breeze slipped past. He was only in a singlet and board shorts, this was a terrible idea.

“I need to get changed.”

“No time for that, chamaco. We’ve got to get a move on. Vámonos!”

Miguel shot an unimpressed look at Héctor, who dug bare heels into his shoulder and patted the side of his neck like he was a horse who just needed a bit of coaxing to make a particularly challenging step. Before he could, there was a low bird call, an almost slurred whistle, and Miguel jolted at the sound of it. Héctor brightened and started looking around.

“Zalli! There you are, diosa!” Miguel followed his eyes and saw a bird sitting on a nearby windowsill. It had a black head and wings and a brilliant yellow body that shone like gold in the moonlight. It cocked its head at them, then fluttered its wings and flew towards them. Much to Miguel’s shock, it perched on the point of his shoulder beside Héctor and lowered its head as the faerie wrapped his arms around it. They were roughly the same height, so Héctor had to hop to his feet for the embrace.

“Wait, this is your bird?”

“Yes! This is Zalli, she is my…” Héctor faltered, then squinted suspiciously up at Miguel. “She’s my bird,” he finally finished, unconvincingly. “Zalli, this is…uh…boy.”

“My name is Miguel.” He couldn’t quite maintain the unimpressed tone while watching Héctor interact with the songbird. The easy way he smoothed a hand over the dark feathers of her neck and how her beady eyes seemed intent of his face. It was totally natural and absolutely unselfconscious.

“Yes! This is Miguel. He ate my dinner so we’re taking him to the Faerie Realm to break the curse.”

There was a prolonged silence. Zalli fluttered her wings and tilted her head and let out a low, ‘peu’ noise. It carried a note of uncertainty that most humans would have difficulty expressing. Héctor nodded and gently rubbed her neck.

“I know, I know. But he’s very convincing. Oh, and we’re taking the dog too.” Another slurred whistle and tilt of her head. Héctor mumbled something and wrapped his arms around her. She let out a chirrup and took off, her claws scraping against Miguel’s skin as she did. “Alright, chamaco, time to go.”

“Where are we going? You haven’t told me how we’re getting to the Faerie Realm.”

“We’ve got to go through my sídhe,” Héctor said, matter-of-factly.

“And where is that?”

Héctor narrowed his eyes. Frowned. “You’re the one who’s been visiting every day. You should know the way better than anyone.”

Miguel thought it over. He certainly wasn’t visiting anyone’s…sídhe—whatever that was—on purpose. There was only one place he visited routinely. “The tree? Do you mean the tree in the forest?” Héctor grinned and tapped one finger on the side of his long, hooked nose. “How do you know I visit there? Do you…watch me?”

The grin faded just a shade. Héctor shrugged narrow shoulders in a nonchalant fashion and pointedly looked up at the sky, where his bird was flying just overhead. When he eventually spoke, his voice was hushed and thoughtful.

“You play music. I like music…” Then, oddly defensive, “You’re the one who sits in my sídhe every day to play your guitar, am I supposed to not listen?”

Miguel smiled. He couldn’t help it. He loved playing the guitar and it was thrilling, in a way, to learn that he’d had an audience this whole time. As such, he couldn’t help but ask, “Am I…any good?”

Héctor grinned again, patting Miguel’s cheek with a small, cold hand. “You have music in your soul, chamaco. The guitar fits you.”

Miguel flushed as a wave of happiness washed through him. It was nice, hearing that someone had not only listened but actually enjoyed the music he played. He hadn’t realised how much it would mean.

“So, now we’ve got to get to the forest. What’s the quickest way?”

Miguel hesitated. “Through the cemetery, I guess. Though we’d have to be careful. They keep it locked up at night.” Héctor made a blasé huff and shrugged. “And I’m not tiny like you; I can’t just squeeze through the bars.”

“Ah, yes.” As they approached the gates Héctor examined the fence with one eye closed and his head tilting back and forth. “Yes, I can see how this would be a problem. If only you were a proper faerie instead of just being cursed. You could just fly right over.” Héctor made little flapping motions of his hands.

“Wings? If I was a faerie I’d have wings??” Miguel narrowed his eyes. “Wait, you don’t have wings.”

“This is not the time for that, up and over!” Héctor bounced off Miguel’s shoulder with surprising grace and, quick as lightning, Zalli snatched him in mid-air and slipped them both through the fence. Miguel managed to catch just a glimpse of the faerie’s back and the two thin slits in his sewn leaf vest as they did, before they were too small to discern. “Come on! You’re falling behind!”

Miguel rolled his eyes, crouched down and caught Dante’s face between his hands. “You go around, boy. I’ll meet you at the guitar.”

Dante lapped at his hands, looked at him with wide eyes that almost, maybe, showed a spark of intelligence somewhere deep beneath. There had to be some smarts in there somewhere, because he turned and bounded away along the fence. Following orders, as he always did. Miguel looked up at the fence. Iron bars with twisted spikes. They certainly looked sharp. He hoped it was just for show.

He pulled off his singlet and shuddered as the breeze ran up his spine. It was icy, that breeze, the complete opposite of the hot humid air during the day. He’d not been outside this late before and so wasn’t completely sure if this was normal or not. White cloth wrapped tight around his fist, he clambered onto the concrete foundation and reached up towards the twisted spires. There was a horizontal iron bar just beneath them and he found he could easily fit his hand in the gap without too much pressure. Pushed off with his feet. Flung his wrapped hand up. Caught hold of a twisted spike. His lips were already beared in a grimace, so when his hand wrapped around the iron he felt a searing pain in his palm. Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself up using his other hand as a lever and wedging bare toes into the gap where his other hand was. With a grunt of effort, he hoisted himself over, landing on the grass he mowed every other weekend with a pained gasp.

He unwound the singlet frantically, so convinced that he’d impaled his hand on climbing that for a moment he saw bright red blood shining from an uneven gash in his palm, but when he blinked the blood was gone. Breathing a shaky sigh of relief, he got to his feet and pulled his singlet back on. It didn’t do much against the cold wind, but it was something at least. He hurried through the cemetery, under the shadow of Ernesto de la Cruz’s tomb and into the forest.

It was different at night. The layers of vivid green overlapped to become almost black. His eyes narrowed and widened at alternating moments to try to adjust to the utter darkness. Then, a glimmer of gold. Zalli swooped down from one of the trees, Héctor now on her back, and her body shone with a gentle, glittering light.

“Your bird glows in the dark,” Miguel said, eyes wide and voice flat. He didn’t know why he was surprised at this point. Maybe all birds glowed in the dark, how would he know?

“She’s special,” Héctor said proudly, stroking the black feathers on her neck. “Come on, chamaco, we’ve got to get to my sídhe.”

“We’ve got to get Dante first, he’ll be waiting at the grave.” Miguel pressed forward, grateful that Zalli fluttered close enough that the light emanating from her feathers illuminated the path he usually followed. Héctor was silent as they passed the few scattered graves in the forest, his mouth set in a thin line and his eyes fixed ahead.

As they drew closer to the last grave, Miguel was astonished to hear the gentle strumming of his guitar. It was as familiar to him as his own voice at this point, the rough edge to the E string, the extra twang from the A string that he’d learned to control. Someone was playing his guitar. Why would someone be playing his guitar at this time of night?

He picked up speed, eyes wide in the gloom as Zalli whistled and beat her wings harder to keep up. The guitar was gone, the case open on the cleared grass and the tarp laying in a crumpled blue heap. Dante was sniffing interestedly at the battered leather, his hackles not raised. Héctor, seeing all of this laid out, let out a muffled curse and put his hands over his face.

“Where’s my guitar?” Miguel asked, then added with a rising heat of anger in his tone, “Who took my guitar??”

A shadow separated itself from the trees. Tall and broad with bumps and lines that hurt his head to look at. Zalli whistled her uncertain slurred whistle and Héctor wrapped thin arms tight around her neck, ducking his head behind hers. Miguel’s mouth gaped open. As the figure drew closer it became more distinct, a skeletal wraith with wings of shadow.

“Héctor,” it growled, voice low and gravelly, the sound of stones stirring at the bottom of a well. “What are you doing here?”

“Chicharrón!” Héctor shot up from his hiding spot behind Zalli’s head and offered a wide, winning smile. “I didn’t know you were up! How’ve you been? It’s been a long time!”

The skeleton huffed, exposed teeth clacking together, before turning its yellowing skull towards Miguel. “You’re the boy, the one with the guitar.” Long phalanxes formed basic chords and strummed out harsh notes. “Thank you for the offering.”

“It’s not an offering! It’s my guitar!” Miguel was shocked at the words coming out of his own mouth. It was as though his mouth was on a totally separate circuit from his brain.

“And for cleaning my grave,” Chicharrón continued, as though Miguel hadn’t spoken. “It has been many years since anyone cared for my resting place. I appreciate the effort you’ve made.”

“I… Uh… You’re welcome?” Miguel smiled, uncertain about what exactly was happening now. Had he said grave? Yeah, sure, probably. He was a skeleton, after all, it made sense he had a grave.

Chicharrón nodded, a slow movement of his huge skull, then turned those empty eye sockets back to Héctor. “You should not have left the forest, Héctor. Visiting family only. You know that.”

“Ay, Cheech, we all make mistakes.” Héctor’s winning smile didn’t fade, though Miguel could clearly see a nervous tremble passing through the faerie’s body. “Miguel here ate food from my sídhe. I had to go find him. It’s just a little rule broken, okay? And I’m coming back now, you didn’t even know I was gone!”

Another huff. This one accompanied by an awful bony clattering that made Miguel shudder. “You break the rules too often, Héctor. When you end up on this side you will not be looked on kindly.”

Héctor nodded and looked suitably abashed, but Miguel could see the hand behind his back making a very unflattering puppet motion as Cheech talked. “Yes of course, Cheech, now if you could just let us through we’ve got to try and break this curse.”

Cheech turned between the two of them. Now Miguel was looking closely he could see a very dim light in the back of his eye sockets; a subtle gleam that only just reflected the golden shine of Zalli’s feathers. “I will allow it, for Miguel’s benefit.” Cheech bent, a slow stately movement, and patted Dante’s head. Skeletal fingers running gently over the Xolo’s skin. Dante yipped and lapped at the bones, the sight making Miguel’s stomach twist in an odd way. “Good dog.”

Héctor wiped his forehead, a much more genuine movement then when he’d done the same in Miguel’s room, and gestured. “Come on, chamaco, we’ve got to hurry.”

Miguel hesitated, held up one finger. “Uh, about my guitar?”

“Our guitar,” Cheech corrected. The lift of his voice made it sound like he was smiling, though there was no alteration in the bare skull. “I put it back come sunrise. I promise.”

Reassured, Miguel flashed a thumbs-up and followed the glitter of Zalli’s body, along the same path he’d walked almost every day. 

Towards the clearing and the twisted, stunted tree.


End file.
